


where i go, when i go there

by rainny_days



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon Asexual Character, Caretaking, Developing Relationship, Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Depression, Tenderness, They're getting there, Touch-Averse, Touch-Starved, martin's not quite okay, neither is jon, post-159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 05:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21502546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainny_days/pseuds/rainny_days
Summary: Martin wants Jon to hold his hand. Martin doesn't want Jon to hold his hand.It's complicated.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 45
Kudos: 688





	where i go, when i go there

**Author's Note:**

> i was thinking about martin's relationship with touch after months of the lonely, and this happened.  
> this might be a lot sadder than my other stuff, uh, sorry?

Jon had held his hand when they walked out.

It’s a strange thought to hold on to, in the wake of everything that happened, but it’s the only thing that Martin remembers with any clarity from the fog of their return. When he looks back on it, he can almost recall bits of Jon speaking, voice urgent - something about being safe, something about being sorry, the sudden, sharp clarity of ‘ _look at me, and tell me what you see_ ’ - but it’s a blur, buried under the unceasing numbness and the distant, cold despair that had felt woven into every inch of his soul. 

His hands, though- Martin can remember his hands perfectly, warm against his cheeks as he spoke, voice indistinguishable but touch undeniable. Long fingers digging into his back as they embraced, gentle around his palm as Jon led Martin back into the startlingly real dustiness of the tunnels. It had been the only thing that Martin could bring himself to trust, after months of Peter’s almost-intangible brushes being his only points of almost-human contact.

He had held onto Martin after they had escaped, kept his hands wrapped gently around Martin’s as they had gone back to Jon’s long-abandoned apartment. Martin remembers thinking _oh, he has as many books as I’d imagined, everything’s so neat, it looks lonely,_ before Jon had quietly fussed Martin into his obviously unused bed. He had curled himself protectively behind Martin, and Martin wanted to _sob_ with how good it felt, even as it _hurt_ , for some reason. It had been wonderful, and awful, and not enough, and far too much, and Martin didn’t know if he wanted to flinch away or turn around and pull Jon closer, closer, closer, until he could crawl into Jon’s bird-hollow bones and make himself a home there.

He had stayed still, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to scream every time Jon shifted closer or moved away.

When he had finally fallen asleep, his dreams were quiet and terrible, the long, gentle flow of fog into his lungs and the slow disintegration of his body into fine sand. He had woken without warning, without sound, tears flowing from his eyes and alone in Jon’s small, too-empty bed. Martin isn’t sure how he manages to get himself out of bed, only that the effort is driven through the lone, terrible thought of _I can’t not-know if this is real, I can’t keep feeling like this_.

The sight of Jon in the kitchen, quietly stirring mugs of coffee, hits Martin with enough force to tilt him back on his feet. Jon looks up, meets his eyes, and whatever he sees there makes him abandon the steaming mugs - _he has novelty mugs, I didn’t know he liked things like that -_ to step closer to him, hands hovering nervously as if he were preparing to catch Martin. The thought almost makes Martin want to laugh, the idea of small, twig-like Jon attempting to carry Martin’s bulk. The amusement rises in his stomach, turns into ash somewhere near his esophagus, and never reaches his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, voice gentle but somehow still unbearably loud, distant like the ring of a faraway clock tower. “I thought...you might like something warm to hold onto, when you woke up.”

Martin opens his mouth, and nothing but an exhale escapes. He closes his lips again, trying to gather the memory of sounds. “...thank you,” he manages to say, finally, though his own voice doesn’t sound quite right in his ears.

Jon makes a motion as if he wanted to move closer, but aborts the movement, fingers clenching and relaxing as he gives Martin a soft, slightly strained smile. 

“I can-” he goes to retrieve the mugs, and even though he’s only a few steps away Martin feels his absence like a blade, like relief. He returns with a mug in each hand, and holds one out to Martin. The swirling letters - _purranormal cativity_ \- under the cartoon ghost cat are so innocuous that it makes that almost-amusement rise and fall in Martin’s chest again. Martin takes the cup from his hands, noticing distantly that Jon is careful not to let their fingers brush. The heat of the mug seeps through his hands, and it’s almost better than touch, less heavy with the weight of expectation.

“Thank you,” he repeats, and his voice sounds a little more like his own. Maybe he can live with only these two words, press them as needed into Jon’s waiting, hopeful hands. _Thank you for the coffee, thank you for the bed, thank you for leading me out, thank you for being real, being here, for holding my hand_. 

Jon smiles at him, tremulous and hopeful, and- maybe not. Jon deserves more. Maybe he can work on _I'm sorry_ , next.

* * *

Jon stops touching him, after that.

It's not immediate, not sudden, just the slow recession of the tide after a swell. Martin is almost too distracted too notice, between Basira's visit (too-loud, too-much, and he's unspeakably grateful that she almost exclusively speaks to Jon and not Martin, only pausing at the door as she was about to leave to give him a curt but sincere _"I'm glad you're alright",_ which Martin responds to with the only two words in his current vocabulary) and the drive to Scotland. Jon touches his elbow sometimes, to get his attention, brushes his fingers over Martin's sleeves the edge of his collar, but they always disappear as soon as they appear, leaving Martin feeling strangely bereft. He is quietly, agonizingly careful about not touching Martin skin to skin.

He doesn't know how to ask for it, isn't even sure he wants to, sometimes, when even the thought of Jon coming close tightens his breath worryingly. But the way that Jon tip-toes around him hurts just as much as the lack of touch, the way that he looks so _heartbroken_ whenever his fingers reach out and retract. Martin wants to grab his hand, wants to tell him that it's okay, that Martin does want to- does want him- does _want_ , but the words always dissipate from his throat to his lips, leaving him watching helplessly as Jon shakes his head, smiles at him tentatively, moves his fingers away.

They still sleep in the same bed, but there is a line of air between them, the gap warm with their body heat but never with touch. Sometimes, when Martin wakes up with ice in his throat and the sinking surety that he is made of nothing but mist, he reaches out, touches the edge of Jon's hair, doesn't dare to try for anything more.

Surprisingly, it's Jon that breaks down first.

Martin finds him after he wakes up alone again, not unfamiliar now but still heart-stopping, just for a moment. It would be nothing, except he hears a hitched breath from the floor beside the empty sheets. He pushes himself up, suddenly wide awake with terror- did Jon _see_ something- did something happen while he was asleep- was Jon- did Jon get _hurt_ -

When he pushes himself over to Jon's side of the bed, he sees that it's something far worse. Jon is _crying_.

" _Jon,"_ he says, helplessly. Jon makes a choked, awful sound, and Martin doesn't think when he reaches out and touches Jon's violently shaking hands. Jon's breath hitches, and Martin begins to pull them back, something huge and awful in his chest. But when he tries to retract his touch, Jon makes a sound of grief and Martin's fingers falter, hesitantly returning. When Jon leans into the touch, this time, Martin gently pulls him in, tucking his head into the juncture of Martin's collar, softly running a hand through Jon's long, thin hair.

He whispers a litany of soft, meaningless words into Jon's hair, not quite letting himself think before the sounds crawl up his throat and out his lips. He murmurs about the scenery on their drive, about the cows he sees outside their windows sometimes, about the fields and the color of the sunsets and a thousand other little gifts that Jon has given him by bringing him here, by letting him stay. He feels it as Jon's sobs grow slower, as his breathing grows deeper, as his shaking gentles to barely a tremor.

"I'm sorry," Jon says into Martin's jumper, the first words that he's managed all night. Martin squeezes him a little, frowns.

"Don't," he begins, but Jon is already pulling away, looking at him with guilt-stricken eyes.

"I'm sorry for- making you do this," he says, red-rimmed gaze falling downwards. "I know you don't-"

It's that that makes Martin move forwards, breaking his fear for long enough to press his palm against Jon's lips.

"I _do,_ Jon," he says, more fiercely than he's done anything since the Lonely. "I- Jon, you have to know-"

Jon's shaking his head, pulls his face away far enough to speak. "It _hurts_ ," he says, voice cracking a little. "I _saw_ that it hurts-"

"It hurts when you _don't_ , too," Martin says, sharper than he'd intended. His throat hurts a little from speaking, but he pushes on. "And I'd rather hurt _with_ you than without, if it's all the same."

Jon's staring at him, stricken, and Martin keeps talking, can't seem to stop, now that the dam has opened. "I, I can't say that I won't...not want to, sometimes, when it's too much, but- Jon, even if I don't, I still want _you._ You must know that."

"I-" there's something fragile in Jon's eyes, and Martin holds on to them. Doesn't let himself look away. "I didn't. I- Martin- " he swallows, "I understand. It's not the same as with you, I'm just not-" he reaches out, presses gentle fingers to Martin's neck, reverent. "but I always want you, too. I love you. "

Martin touches the fingers at his neck, marvels at how safe he feels, despite everything.

"Let's go back to bed," he says, tugging Jon up and gently herding him into the sheets. This time, he lets himself reach out first, lets Jon's arms hesitantly curving around him be comfort instead of pain.

As he feels Jon's breath slow into sleep, he mouths words into his hair. Just three, just a few. If he practices enough, maybe he'll have it ready for Jon by morning.

**Author's Note:**

> can you tell i wrote the second half on a subway


End file.
